Dizzy
by Mindfreak Iero
Summary: Frerard. My Chemical Romance. Frank Iero moves out to start touring, once his band breaks up, he's forced to come home and face what he left behind.


Disclaimer: This isn't true, and I don't own My Chemical Romance.  
Rating: NC-17 because of the sex and drugs.  
Pairing: Frank/Gerard.

* * *

My fingers poured themselves freely over the strings of the acoustic guitar that my Grandfather had bought for me when I was little. I shut my eyes and leaned back, resting myself against my bedroom wall as I cocked my leg up to keep the guitar in place. I stopped playing for a second to reach down to the floor beside me. Grabbing the cigarette that was burning out in the clear-glass ashtray, I took a draw. I allowed the smoke to stay trapped inside of my lungs as if I were smoking a toke. I knew it was bad for me, but I needed the rush of the nicotine. I felt light-headed and dizzy as I released the smoke through both my nose and my mouth. I put the cigarette back in its bed before resting my head back against the wall, allowing my fingers to take over my soul once again.

I didn't know what I was playing, I was making it up off the top of my head. The notes that were slipping passed my grip were never going to be remembered to jot down, but they were so beautiful and peaceful. They could put a baby to sleep, and that wasn't like me at all. It felt so different and foreign being back home. I knew for a fact that my Mother didn't want me around, and that made the entire foreign feeling ten times worse.

I couldn't exactly blame her, though. I wasn't the easiest kid to get along with. I left home when I was seventeen years of age with a band to go touring. She didn't respect that idea and told me that I was crazy for following such dreams, and that it was obvious I turned after my late Father. That was another thing that was bugging me. She turned so sour since my Father was killed in that accident. It was almost like she blamed me for it.

Anyway, in regards to the band, that's why I was back home. Sure, we toured around Jersey and New York for a couple of years, but that's as far as we made it. Eventually, the guys left and went their separate ways, leaving me to face the fact that I had to 'run home to Momma'. I spent over a week sleeping in my old car because I was too much of a pansy to face the music. It was only last week that I decided to darken the doorway once again of my childhood home.

Her reaction was expected and just to her personality. "I told you so," she had said with a bitter-sweet smile whipped across her overly made up face. I ignored it, told her I was going to be around for a while, and then she spat that I had better get a job or do something with my life and snap out of the purple haze I was lost in two years ago.

The saying 'purple haze' had regenerated my love for pot, so ever since I stepped through the front door of this shit hole I've been stoned. It had paid off that my old friends were going no where in life, and were still stoners that hung out down at the old community center where all the local shows were thrown.

I stopped my mindless mixture of strumming and picking so I could steal another draw from my fag. I sucked hard, making sure I burnt it down to the filter before exhaling quicker than I had before. The smoke swirled upwards then got sucked out through the opened window. I stubbed out the butt before laying my guitar on the floor next to me. A yawn escaped my body as I strayed my head lazily to the side and grabbed the cordless phone from the floor. I dialled an old friend's number to see if they were still around town.

"Yeah, is Mikey there?" I questioned to the foreign responder of the call. The male voice cracked something about him off fucking himself in the university, then asked for a name. "Frank," I responded. The man said something about letting him know that I had called the next time he calls home. I thanked him before hanging up. It was then when I started to wonder who had answered the phone.

I stared at the silver-based phone for a few minutes before dialling Bob's cell number. I never got an answer so I left him a message and asked him to get back to me, telling him we had to get some more weed and possibly alcohol. I wanted to go to one of those Jersey parties like I used to with all the guys.

I yawned again. I seemed to have forgotten how boring Jersey actually was aside from the parties and the shows. There was nothing big around here; New York had it all. We were like their darkened shadow that was meant to be ignored.

I was about to plank myself in bed to kill a few hours, but I heard a car door slam from through my window. Soon enough, the front door opened, making my curtains wail with the suction, then the door slammed once more. My Mother was home. Nothing good could have resulted from that situation. I was still in my room, sitting on the floor, and chain smoking fags like they were going out of style. I had made no attempts on getting a job, and no attempts at looking further into my education.

"Frank Anthony Iero, if I come up over those stairs and you're still on the floor playing that god damn guitar, I'm going to kick you out."

_Ah, nothing like a Mother's love_, I had thought to myself as I slowly got to my feet. I picked up my old guitar and put it back on its stand, but I knocked over the ashtray in the process. I grunted in an uncaring way as I examined the mess of black and gray ashes that were getting stubbed into the carpet.

My stomach grumbled, reminding me that I hadn't eaten anything that day. Also, it could have been mad at me from all the smoking I was doing. I guess you could say I was feeding my lungs and not my tummy, but whatever.

I walked over to my door and pried it open. It seemed as though she never even entered the room after I had left. Everything was still in its place when I had arrived home. "Did you buy anything to eat?" I called down the hall.

She ignored me, which was typical and expected. I was offended on how she was treating me. I was still her son, no matter how many stupid mistakes I had made in the past and probably will still make in the future.

I walked down the hall. So many memories flooded my brain with each trip down the carpeted surface. It was weird, though, because I had only been gone for two years, although, they did seem like an eternity. I learned a lot on the road, though. A lot of things that I never wanted to admit.

I walked down over the stairs. The squeak of the railing made me remember the times when Mikey and I were about four or five years old, we would slide down over it and knock our balls off the knob on the end. We never meant to, of course, but we just had to keep doing it because of the thrill from sliding from top to bottom in less than five seconds. It was much more entertaining than the stairs, and we could laugh at each other as we cupped our underdeveloped cocks in hilarious pain.

I guess you're wondering about Mikey, yet? Well, Mikey was my childhood best friend. We grew up together. He lived across the street from me. Mom and Donna were really close, as was my Father and Donald. We all got along back then, good times, good times.

Mikey followed along with Pencey Prep (my band) and went to all our shows. I saw him many times over the past two years, but we seemed to have drifted. I didn't even know that he was attending university. It was safe to say that I missed him.

"Did you do anything today? At all?" my Mother asked me as I stepped foot into the kitchen. I shrugged and walked over to the fridge, opened the door, but then it was slammed shut before I could look inside. I glanced over towards my Mother, she had pressed her palm flat on the door and shut it in my face. "If you're going to live under my roof and expect me to feed you, you have to get a job," he snapped.

"Mom!" I exclaimed. "I'm your fucking son!"

"My _son_ isn't covered with that god awful body art, and my _son_ doesn't have facial piercings."

"Uh, _yes_, he does. Do you want a blood test?" I snarled at her, forcing the fridge door open. She didn't close it again, she let me have my way.

"It's like I don't even know you any more."

"Mom, it was two years, two years! I'm still the same person."

"No, you're not. You're your father. You're just like him."

I rolled my eyes. "Well, his sperm did create me," I responded. I grabbed a can of diet coke from the rack from the fridge, then made my way to the pantry.

"Saucy, just like him."

"Just because my father died in an accident, doesn't mean you have to hate me for it."

"I don't hate you," she whispered.

I walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. I sat down on the couch and cracked open my soda. I chugged nearly half of it, then hiccuped. I glanced through the front window as my Mother came into the living room and sat in the arm chair by the television.

She spoke up again, continuing with what she was saying before I had walked away. "I really don't hate you, Frank. You left two years ago, pretty much telling me you didn't need me anymore. I just got used to it without you, and I can't say that I wasn't offended that you just 'up and left' on such a pitiful reason."

I chugged more of my coke then burped. I didn't excuse myself.

"Are you even listening to me?" she asked.

"Yes." I finished off the can of pop pretty quickly. I leaned ahead and placed the empty can on the coffee table and turned towards her. "What do you expect me to say, Mom?" I asked her. "I had a life experience, you can't abandon me for that."

"Touring with a band," she stated.

I knew she was about to say more, but I cut her off. "Yes I toured with a band. I sang lead and I played guitar. I'm in the music scene now, and any day soon I'm going to be in another band, and I'm going to make it as a musician. I love music, Mom, why can't you accept that!"

"I met your father at a show," she told me. She was going to tell me the story of her and dad. I had heard it a million and one times. "He had those same dreams, same expectations. Now look at him. Six feet under."

"Music had nothing to do with his death," I snarled.

She started to shake her head. "He had a car accident," she told me.

"I know he did."

"–because he was on the way to arrange your guitar lessons so that they wouldn't interfere with his work."

I stopped and stayed completely silent. _That_ I didn't know. I kept looking out through the window, staring at Mikey's house as if he would run out through the door and save me from what was about to come.

"How come you didn't tell me?"

She stayed silent for a long time before replying. "You didn't ask."

"Fuck you," I hissed, getting up from the couch. I looked in her eyes and saw the tears as they pooled. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you," I repeated over and over again. I was starting to get so angry at her that I couldn't even stand to be in the same room.

"–Frankie!"

"–_fuck you_."

I sped up over the stairs and down the hall to my room. I looked at myself in the mirror. My brown dred-locks were fuzzy and they reeked like weed. My complection looked oily and my eyeliner was smudged. My lip was swollen on the right where the metal gripped my flesh, and the gauges filling my lobes were throbbing with blood flow. I grabbed my Black Flag zip up and my cell phone, cigarettes, lighter and wallet. I pushed the wallet, smokes and lighter in my back pocket and flipped my cell open. I dialled Bob's cell number again as I was walking down the hall. While I was going down over the stairs, I ignored the squeak of the railing. I ignored the quiet sobs of my mother, and I ignored the blood pumping to my heart with rage.

While I was storming down my driveway, someone's face caught my attention. I glanced over at Mikey's house. Someone had just dropped away from the front window. I never had a chance to see what they looked like. I ignored it and concentrated on the continuous ringing of my cell.

Bob answered. "Bob!" I gasped, not really expecting his voice. That was kind of stupid, seeing as I was calling his phone.

"_Yeah man, what's up?_" he asked me.

"Not much, you wanna chill right now?"

"_Yeah, sure man, I'm always up for hanging with you, Frank._"

"Haha, good. Let's get some weed."

"_Oh, you fuckin' know it._"

"Meet me at the bridge in fifteen minutes, we'll go from there to the lot, get what we need, get primed, then call some people up."

"_Fine with me._"

"Oh, and bring Ray," I said, kicking my shoes along the dirt as I walked in the direction of the old bridge.

"_Okay, see you then._"

I flipped the cell shut then put it in my pocket. I pulled out my pack of Marlboros and my little pink lighter. I took out a fag and placed it between my lips then cupped my hand over it and flicked the lighter to expose the flame. I inhaled through the filter until the cherry caught. I puffed a few times to ensure that it was lit, then I put away the lighter and the pack. I put my hood up and shot my head down. With each exhale I made, the smoke shifted behind me and went in my flapping hood with the wind. I enjoyed the nicotine that was circulating my system while I tried to calm myself down from the words my Mother had spoken.

_You didn't ask._

By the time I had gotten to the bridge, my old friends were already there and my smoke was drawn dry. "Hey man," Bob greeted me, grabbing my fist and pulling us together then slamming our knuckles together after I moved back. I turned to Ray and did the same thing before slumping myself against the guard rail and kicking my left foot over my right.

"So how's life?" Ray asked me. "How's the band?"

I laughed, fighting off the urge to light up another smoke. "Over," I stated. "How about you? How's the music treatin' yah?"

"Shitty," he told me. "I'm tryin' to get a band together. Bob's the drummer and I play lead guitar. We bass and vocals for this to work."

"I can play bass," I rambled.

"Seriously?" he asked me.

"Oh, yeah," I told him, playing with my cuticles. "I picked it up on tour for a side hobby," I explained.

"Would you be up for playing bass?" he asked me.

I glanced over towards him while I stuffed my hands in my side pockets. "Back in a band already? Fuckin' hell yeah," I laughed with the biggest grin splattered across my face.

"Haha," Bob laughed. "So, you wouldn't happen to know a vocalist, would you?"

I shook my head. "I don't, actually. Well, besides myself."

Both Bob and Ray exchanged glances at the same time, then looked back at me. "Well," Ray started off. "It looks like we've got ourselves a band."


End file.
